


The Lord of Rot and Ruin

by Hattingmad



Category: Bluebeard - All Media Types, Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Death and the Maiden, Eventual Smut, F/M, Reincarnation, Whump, a little everneath-y, deadly touch, except is he really?, probably, some gore, villain triumphant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-03 06:25:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10961559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hattingmad/pseuds/Hattingmad
Summary: You know this story. Or you think you know. You are right. But you are also wrong.Hades/Persephone + reincarnation fic + some Bluebeard + some Beauty and the Beast= this thing. Persephone is stolen away, Hades is cursed, and no one handles things well.





	1. Chapter 1

 

You know this story. Or you think you know. You are right. But you are also wrong.

 

Once upon a time, there lived a girl. She had an overprotective mother, and her father was a powerful man. She did not see him very much. She, like many girls, liked flowers. Her laughter was quick to come, her smiles even quicker. She often thought that her world was small, but, she told herself, she was happy.

 

* * *

There also lived an older man. You see? I told you, you know this story.

 

This man also had power, and wealth beyond measure. What he did not have was love.

 

And one day, the man saw the girl, and he wanted her. Like many men, what he wanted, he took.

* * *

Perhaps the girl went willingly. or perhaps not. But it is a fact that he took her. And once she was there, in his home, he wooed her, and he won her. For his was a world far removed from anything the girl knew. He showed her such delights, and fed her wondrous fruits, and his world was lovely and strange. He was beautiful, and terrible, and worldly-wise; his kisses drugging, and his fingertips on her skin were the sharpest blades, cutting through her hesitation and her shame. And oh, how this man wanted her, craved her, needed her and worshipped her. In the end, of course, she went into his arms. And there she stayed.

 

But a protective mother is not to be trifled with, and even a negligent father can be roused to action on behalf of his little girl. For their daughter was gone, and they would bring her back. And such was his power, and his anger, that the long hands of it reached even to where this man made his home, and the battle for custody was waged.

 

As is so often the case, it is easier to appease a mother-in-law than it is to cause endless family strife. So a compromise was struck, and the girl agreed to split her time between her family and her new husband. Everyone was, if not happy, at least equally _un_ happy with this arrangement, and is not this the root of fairness?

 

For a time, everything worked as planned. The girl summered with her family, and wintered with her husband, and life went on.

 

And then, one day, when her husband came to pick her up, eager to reunite with his wife... she was not there.

 

* * *

You see? I also told you that you were wrong.

 

* * *

Believing that by this point in their relationship, they were past cheap tricks and stunts, the husband levelly asked to see his wife.

 

_She is dead_ , the girl's mother told him, _and you will never see her again_.

 

The man protested that this could not be. He would know if his wife were dead. He demanded to see the body, only to be told that the girl's father had taken it and hidden it, somewhere the man, with all his power, still could not reach.

 

_Why do this_ , the man asked, _why take my love from me?_

 

_You took my daughter from me first_ , said the girl's mother. _Now suffer, as I have done. I name you the Lord of rot and ruin, for all you own is death._

 

* * *

This was true. For the man, of course, was no man, but a god, and death was his dominion, just as the girl's mother was the mother of all the earth.

 

_Perhaps_ , said the mother of earth, _my husband, the king of the sky, will send her spirit to earth again. Someday. But you will never find it._

 

But this man, this god, had no time for her idle threats.

 

_The hell I won't_ , he said. To his kingdom he rode, and of every soul and spirit he demanded, had they seen his bride? Of course, they had not. All day and all night he spent searching. But she was not there.

 

He turned to the barrier between his realm and the human world above, wasting no time, ready to pass through and continue his search. But the barrier, which always had parted before his touch, held firm.

 

_Ah_ , came the voice of the mother of earth, _that way is closed to you now. Death you are, and with the dead you shall remain._

 

And then, for women know the cruelty of hope, she added, _but for one day each year. The day my daughter would come to you, these gates will open, and none may prevent your passage. On that day, the very earth will part for you and you may walk among the living. But why would you? There is nothing for you there. Not anymore._

 

His wrath at being denied was great indeed, and such a betrayal would not be forgotten. But even as he raged, and just as the mother of earth had meant it to, the dagger of hope buried itself deep within him. And each year, the moment the barrier parted, he would seek the spirit of his bride among the living.

  

* * *

Just as before, what he wanted, he took. Any girl who seemed a likely host for the soul of his bride, he took, body and soul, back to his kingdom. Hoping. Praying.

 

At first, there were banquets, grand entertainments, and these girls were adorned in splendid finery, as he decided he would celebrate the return of his wife. 

 

But these poor girls were not gods. The living are not meant to walk the halls of the dead.

 

* * *

After the banquets, the number of failures growing high and higher still, there were subdued evenings, cajoling questions, attempts to draw out any dormant memories. And these, too, were failures. The man would reach out to touch these women, without his gauntlets and gloves, and the merest brush of his bare hand would kill. He soon stopped trying, after that, preferring to wear his armor at all times, never showing his face. For what would they see, but the face of a broken man?

 

* * *

On one occasion, the man took the souls only, leaving the bodies living, but uninhabited. And from this, the legend of the sleeping beauties was born. The souls of these girls simply seemed to disappear as he brought them across the threshold, neither heading to his domain as ghosts or going back to their bodies. Some of those bodies are sleeping still.

 

Far kinder, thought he, to take body and soul together, and have them die outright. One life, one death, one afterlife in his kingdom. That was the way of things, for mortal souls. But a god could not die, not truly, not unless their blood had mortal taint--and then, demigods weren't truly gods, were they?

 So what of his bride, his pale queen? As the centuries wore on and on, he wondered. Where was she? How was she hidden from him? Only the king of the sky himself could have placed such a powerful spell upon her, and that in itself was baffling. For that god was occupied with dalliances, rutting with whoever he could, in whatever form he could. No, he had been persuaded somehow, by the mother of earth, to turn against him so. Had she lied, all those years ago? Was this all futile? Had he killed so many for no gain? But without his bride, eternity was a torment. For now, his very touch was death, anathema to all living things. The curse of the mother of earth had born its dark fruit, and truly, more than death, he was now the lord of rot and ruin. Without her by his side, there was no love, no warmth, no light, and no kindness. He could not, would not stop.

 To keep his sanity from slipping, he devised a ritual. Every year, as he took his "brides", he would place each in a room with a door that would not open from the inside, and he would leave. He would pass the night on his throne, and in the morning he would open the door, and one by one, he would watch as the spirits floated out to him.  And the room with the bodies, or parts of bodies, would be sealed until the next year.

 

* * *

It was certainly true that this room had become a chamber of horrors in time, just as it was true that the lord of rot and ruin no longer heard the screams of the girls forced to pass a night surrounded by thousands upon thousands of decaying corpses, until they in their turn took their place amongst them. In his single-minded obsession, he had long since stopped caring for them, or their comfort. Why bother, as he had in the past? Their souls were his, either way.

 

Which brings us, at the last, to today.

 

Another year, another batch of girls stolen from their beds and put into the room with no door.


	2. Lore

I fell asleep in my own bed and woke up on a hard floor to the sound of screaming.

* * *

More like shrieking, really, coming from all around me.

I can usually sleep through anything. Actually slept through a tornado once. It skipped our house, but the neighbor's roof was caved in and there was a giant tree on top of one of their cars in the morning. My mom was horrified--she works night shift, so when she came home, she saw all the damage next door and tore into my bedroom, only to find me zonked out like normal. She used my full name, Lorelei, when she yelled at me that time. I hate my name, and even she mostly calls me Lore now, so I knew I was in trouble when she used it. Not as much trouble as the time I tried to look up who my dad was online, but close. I think he's some big-shot politician, but that's as far as I got before she caught me and started crying. But what did she want me to do about the tornado, sleep _badly?_

Anyway, that ability to sleep like the dead is why I only woke up when there was hysterical sobbing literally right by my ear. Not that I could see anything, really, not at first. It was still dark in the room and I thought I was dreaming, so I just mumbled "shut up, I have work tomorrow" and tried to roll over. What can I say? I'm lazy, and I like my sleep. The girl actively shaking me, though? Not having any of it.

At this point, I was starting to wonder why my beloved bed felt like the basement floor, and trying to remember if I was at a slumber party or something that would explain the screaming. But I haven't been to one of those since I was 12, so that wasn't it.  

* * *

"Alright, I'm up, I'm up" I say, swatting at the arm on me like a grumpy bear. "What is it?"

"The girl over there...she just melted! Like the wicked witch of the fucking west! Oh, god, jesus, we're all gonna die down here! Oh my god, oh my god, oh my--"

This litany is interrupted by the sound of retching, followed by the smell of retching, and I roll away, now a little queasy myself.

Speaking of which, it smells awful in here, and I'm practically smell-blind, so I can only imagine what that other girl was sniffing. As my eyes adjust to the dimness around me, my sleepy brain helpfully chooses this time to process what crying-puke girl said. Melted? Okay, that definitely sounds like a dream.

 

First, I can make out other bodies in the room with me--maybe a dozen of us, all sitting or laying on the floor, all girls around my age. I reconsider my slumber party theory. Well, right up until I see the, uh, _actual_ bodies. What I thought was the back wall of the room is actually a towering pile of...bones? No, wait. not just bones. Skeletons, all stacked on top of each other haphazardly. And not just them, either.

There are things that--no, not things, dead bodies. Former people. Also all girls around my age, from the general shape and size of them. Some still have clothes on, nightgowns and club dresses, or old-timey looking clothes, and they're like the anatomy models in a science class--layers of flesh, muscle and bone all kind of peeled back here and there. It's like I can't process what I'm seeing, there are so many of them, going up and back for what looks like forever. And then there's the dust, a thick layer of gray grime on the floor that's getting everywhere, in my hair, on my clothes...I don't know what I'm looking at. Is this a morgue? A crematorium? It's majorly unsanitary, if it is. Someone should report them to a health board, since I'm pretty sure "haphazard stacks" haven't been the proper corpse-treatment protocol since, oh, I don't know, the black death???

 

While I'm thinking about _that,_ there's another scream from one of the girls in the room, and we all turn to look. Blackish-purple bruises are forming on her skin, growing bigger even as we watch, spreading out like a stain to cover all her exposed skin.

"Oh, Christ!" Someone howls, and I whip my head in that direction, only to see another girl aging within seconds, Benjamin Button in reverse. Her figure fills out, then shrinks, like she's rapidly gaining and losing a ton of weight. Fine lines appear on her face around her eyes and mouth, and she holds out her hands in horror--they look like a grandmother's hands, all knobbled and varicose-veined. Her hair turns gray, then white, then disappears altogether. The skin across her face is so tight and pinched I think it will break, and then it does, disappearing as I look, until she's pure white bone. And then, she's not even that, crumbling into a pile of dust that spreads across the floor. To my revulsion, I realize that's what's covering the floor with grime, and wipe my hands on my pajama pants, desperately needing to be clean.

"Holy Mary Mother of God, what _was_ that?" Another girl starts crying and rocking herself back and forth. Like that'll solve anything.

 

Nothing else seems to be happening, for now. I wish I'd watched more horror movies as a kid, but I wrack my brain, cobbling together what I can from pop culture and school shooter drills. First, flee. If you can't flee, fight. If you can't fight, hide.

"Where's the door?" I ask the room at large.

"There isn't one. Just an outline. No knob, no handle, nothing."

"Window? Skylight? Air vent?" I feel a little stupid asking, but it's smart to make sure, right?

"Nothing," another voice answers. Okay, so escape isn't an option. Plan B. There's safety in numbers.

"Everyone, let's make a circle, facing outward," I shout. "If there's an enemy attacking us that we can't see," and it's picking us off one by one in horrific ways, I think, but don't add out loud, "then we need to stick together." Some of the girls start shuffling toward the middle of the room, but I can see I'm not having much of an effect.

"We don't even have weapons," one of them says acerbically. "What are we gonna do to a monster, talk it to death?"

She's right, I think, feeling my shoulders sag. It's just us and a huge pile of bones and rotting flesh and--wait a minute, bones!

I stand up and make my way to the tower of death, trying not to disturb it too much, lest it fall on us and make things even worse. Okay. I can do this. I silently apologize to the skeleton I've chosen for what I'm about to do, and promise to pray for her soul later or something. I mean, I'm agnostic so I doubt it'll do much, but still. Then I reach in and grab a big bone, probably a leg bone, and jerk it free of the pile, internally cringing all the while. Good thing I'm not germaphobic. I hold it up toward the girl who was complaining, trying not to look as grossed-out as I feel.

"We _have_ weapons," I say. A couple of the girls turn green and throw up, but I'm not sure if that's because of the smell in here or the 'desecration of a body' thing. The girl who complained, a short Asian girl in a bathrobe and slippers, considers me for a moment, then nods.

"I'm Lily," she says, grabbing her own...uh, femur?... from the pile.

"Lore," I say, trying to smile. "I'd offer to shake your hand, but..."

"Yeah, no, I'm good, thanks," Lily says, wrinkling her nose. "But, I'll take your back, if no one else will. It's a good idea."

Grateful to her beyond words, I grip my bone tighter, moving into position. We're back to back, and just feeling someone else's body heat against me gives me strength. I'm not alone here. No one else seems particularly interested in looting the dead, and I shake my head, knowing there's nothing else I can do for them.

 

"So," I say to Lily, "you think this is all a shared hallucinogenic nightmare, or what?"

She snorts. "I wish. But man, I've never been on a drug trip this bad."

"Never been on a drug trip at all, but I'll take your word for it," I mutter. "How the hell did we get here, anyway?"

"I thought I felt someone carrying me, earlier, before I woke up here," another girl volunteers from the darkness.

"Oh, god, we're not in a snuff film, are we? In someone's murderbasement?" I try to joke, but it isn't particularly funny.

"Too big for a murderbasement," Lily says, vetoing the idea with a shake of her head.

"Yeah, you're right. It'd be more of a murder warehouse. So, tell me more about the person you thought was carrying you, um--"

"Yeah, what's your name?" Lily asks, wanting all the information we can get, in case this turns out to be real. Silence.

I feel Lily tense behind me, and I raise my weapon in front of me.

"Hello?"

"...she's gone," someone says quietly.

"Is...her body still here?" I ask, carefully.

"I don't think so," comes the reply, after a long silence. "It's hard to tell."

Okay. Yikes.

"Everybody, keep talking," Lily says. "I want to get a headcount in here."

There are seven of us left. From the bits and pieces Lily and I can draw out of the other occupants, there were at least thirty of us here earlier. One or two confirm that they vaguely remember being carried in their sleep, but that they couldn't wake up for real until they were in the room, and that they weren't panicked until then, either.

"Chloroform?" I ask Lily, quietly.

"Sounds like it," she confirms. "But there's something I don't get."

"What's that?"  
"In case you can't tell by my charming attire, I was getting ready for bed when this--I mean, I was in my _house,"_ she tries again. "Not all of us were swiped off the streets, or a bar, or--I never heard about some maniac in Shibuya breaking into peoples' homes."

"Wait. You're from Japan?"

"Uh, yeah."

"And you've only been here for a few hours? Not, like, days?"

"Pretty sure."

"Lily... I'm American. I'm pretty sure I heard a girl over there speaking Italian. This isn't just some local thing--it's international."

She turns to look at me with big, wide eyes.

"But that's impossible! It'd be like...Murderclaus, kidnapping girls all around the world in a single night~!"

"I know," I say, fighting back a rising sense of panic. "Maybe this is...just a dream, and none of you are real."

"Excuse _you,_ I'm very real, thankyouverymuch. Maybe _you're_ the fake one." She 'hmmphs' at me, and turns back to face toward the outside of the room. "Besides...it _smells_ pretty real in here," she adds, softly.

She's right about that much. The stench of decay, sweat and vomit, and someone who pissed themselves, and a bunch of other gross stuff I'd rather not think about circulates in the stale air. I've never smelled a dead body before. And now I'm sniffing hundreds--no, thousands, probably.

"It's not possible," I moan. "It's breaking my brain, trying to make it possible!" I shudder, and I feel Lily reach back to squeeze my hand with her free one.

"Hey. We'll...it's gonna be...yeah." She can't bring herself to lie and tell me it'll be fine, or that we'll make it. I don't blame her.

 

A dull chatter fills the room, girls trying to stave off the darkness somehow with empty words. I close my eyes briefly and listen to Lily breathe against my back, telling myself I'll wake up soon. Unless I have to kill the monster to wake up, in which case, I'd really like to dream up a switchblade or some dynamite right now. I try. Nothing happens.

Lily and I distract ourselves by telling 'scary stories', that now seem ridiculous compared to what we're up against. You know, urban legends, like the guy with the hook for the hand, or the one with the guy pretending to be a dog under someone's bed, serial killer in the back seat of the car, that kind of stuff. We periodically burst into hysterical giggles and then hush ourselves, straining our ears for the other girls in the gloom.

She tells me about life in Shibuya, how she's trying to start her own fashion brand, and I tell her about the cesspit that is D.C., and how Mom hates that I'm interning for a representative's office, but it's not like there are any other jobs outside of politics in the area--and definitely not ones that pay.

"My dad's probably a congressman or something. I'm sure if he knew he had a kid, he'd make a big stink about getting me out of here."

"Totally." Her agreeing almost makes me feel better, even though we both know it isn't true.

 

Then, the screaming starts again. We both tense, lashing out with our bones, but finding only empty air.

"What's happening?" We yell, but there's just more sobbing.

 

When the voices start up again, there are less of them. Of us. Time crawls on like this, interminably, nothing happening for long periods of time, and then someone disappearing. Well, no. Not disappearing. Dying. In horrible pain, from how it sounds.

And there's nothing I can do.

If Lily and I get up from our positions to try to rescue someone from an unseen attacker, it will probably just get us next. Even so, I feel like a coward for not helping. Even though I can't help, and trying would just get me killed.

* * *

Finally, exhausted, I think I must doze off without meaning to, because I jerk myself awake with a start.

"Oh, shit! Lily? Why didn't you wake me up? Lily?"

The warmth at my back is gone.

"Lily?" I try again.

Silence.

"Anyone?"

Nothing.

Swallowing my dread, I turn around, clutching my weapon.

I need to know.

Her bathrobe and slippers lay on the floor, a grimy smear at the collar and cuffs all that remains of my new friend.

I did this to her, I realize. I let her die by sleeping. It's my fault.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper.

But there's no one there to hear it.

I am alone, in this room full of death.

I set my jaw, and pick up the other bone-weapon, and wait for the end to come.


	3. Murderclaus?

Time is torture, did you know that?

I didn't. But I do now.

When I was little, Mom would put me in the corner to 'sit and think about what I'd done'. She kept thinking I'd crack eventually, with nothing to occupy me but my guilt and my thoughts. Only, I've got a rich imagination, so I'd just sit there making up stories in my head until she finally came and got me.

But that's the thing, right? I always knew it would end, so I never had to worry. Not really.

I don't know when this will end, only _how_...

with me dead.

And having a rich imagination isn't so great when it's cataloguing, in vivid technicolor detail, all the ways I might die. All the ways the other girls died. The way _Lily_ died.

And all the others, the stacks of bodies, going on and up and back for what seems like forever, just discarded there in careless piles, more than the mind can comprehend.

Who did this? And why?

Why me? Why them? Why any of us?

Why this room?

Why keep your victims as trophies, if you're going to treat those trophies so callously?

My mind spins on and on, for what feels like hours. I mean, it's probably hours. Not like anyone was getting cell phone reception in here.

I just--I mean, not to look a vicious gift-horse in its probably-toxic mouth, but...

why aren't I dead yet? What's it waiting for? It, him, them, whatever. Or am I, and I just don't know it?

What now?

* * *

Thoughts of half-remembered horror films chase through my head, and I wonder if, in a room with so many bodies, the souls of the dead are all here as well, floating around me unseen and unheard. Isn't there some way to contact them?

I draw a plus and a minus sign on the grubby floor with the leg bone, and put it in between the two signs, like a rudimentary Ouija board.

"Knock knock, anyone home?" I say. To my astonishment, the bone wobbles slightly toward the plus sign. 

"Holy shit. Uh, whoa. Okay. Okay. Um. Are...are you the killer?" I don't know why I ask that. It's not like I expect an honest answer.

The bone wobbles toward the minus.

_No._

"Are you one of the girls who was here with me?"

_Yes._

"Lily?" I ask, hopefully.

_Yes._

"Oh my god. Can you ever forgive me?"

_Yes._

_"_ Are you in pain?"

_No._

"Are the others here with you?"

_Yes._

"What about the spirits of the..." I motion toward the piles.

_No._

"Can you get out of the room?"

 _N_ _o._

"Do you know why _I'm_ still here?"

_No._

"I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

The bone doesn't move. Probably because that's not really a yes or no statement.

"What do I do now?" The bone points toward its mate, the makeshift weapon in my hand.

"Be ready to fight?"

_Yes._

"Yeah. Okay. I can do that."

_Yes._

_Yes._  

* * *

I contemplate the merits of a full-frontal assault versus stealth, and decide on the latter.

I make my way to what I think is the front of the room and feel around for the outline of the door.

Sure enough, there's no way to open it.

I press my back flat against the wall to one side, and I wait for something to come at me from the darkness.

* * *

Which is why it's a complete surprise when the door finally swings open, and fresh air rushes into the room. It doesn't matter if the whole thing is a trap. Now's my chance to escape!

I dive for the doorway, heart hammering, blood surging in my veins.

A huge, dark, armored figure blocks the way, and I lash out with my weapon, trying to shove past it as I scream, "stay out of my way or I'll kill you, I swear to god!"

Agnosticism aside, I must be convincing, because the figure doesn't move to catch me, instead saying something in a language I don't understand, in low, urgent tones. I hope it isn't trying to curse me.

I turn to face it and make the sign of the cross, and then the one for the evil eye, since those are the only two I know.

I'm holding my bone out in front of me like a sword or a baseball bat, and I'm jogging backward, not willing to chance a look behind me by taking my eyes off the figure. I just hope I don't fall into a pit full of spikes or trigger a booby trap.

The giant in the armor starts making sense, like it switched to English halfway through a sentence.

"--to me at last?" It sounds shaken, and its voice is muffled behind the helm covering its face. The words are accented, but clear enough.

"Stay back, or I'll cut you!" I warn it, hoping it won't call me out on the fact that I couldn't draw blood with this thing if my life depended on it. Which it very well may. Shit.

The head inside the helmet appears to turn from me to the murderwarehouse and back again, before speaking with--hell if I know at this point, but it's some strong emotion, and it's negative.

"This is all wrong! No, I must start over--"

And then, as I'm backing away down what I hope is a corridor to freedom, it speaks again in that language I don't understand ... and I black out.

* * *

It stood to reason that, given infinite time and trials, one of the girls plucked from her bed would have the spirit of the missing bride.

Certainly, this must be so.

And yet, what of it?

Her treatment was to be no different than any of the others.

And here was where the lord of rot and ruin's obsession with _having_  her met its natural consequence: that when his bride did appear, she, too, would have passed a night in a chamber of horrors, in the bowels of hell, witness to unspeakable pain and devastation.

She, too, would be coated in the dust of a thousand thousand years and corpses, terrified, cold, hungry and alone, not knowing when her own gruesome end would come.

She, too, would bear those scars, and try to fight back against what could only be seen as her captor and tormentor.

What, then, could the lord of rot and ruin do, faced with these immutable facts? 

 

What could any of us do?


	4. So very fired

The cat must be sleeping on the side of the bed again, because the weight distribution is all lopsided. He's a lot heavier than I remember; I guess I must be feeding him too much. I roll over, either to pet the cat or kick him off the bed, I haven’t decided which, and crack an eye open to locate him.

...that's not the cat. It's making little whuffling snores, for one, and stubby little legs are dream-running on the covers. It's an enormously chubby corgi, tucked into a little ball at the foot of the bed. I don't remember getting a dog, certainly not one this cute, but I still want to pet it. As I sit up to do so, its little head pops up and it barks out a joyous greeting, tongue lolling happily.

"Aww, c'mere, buddy! Whooshagooddoggie? Izzityou? It's you!"

  
The dog gives me a pleased yip in response to the baby talk.

  
Then its...second head pops up, yawning expansively before joining the first in slobbery exuberance.

  
"A two-headed doggie?" Huh. I must still be dreaming, but it's a hell of a lot better than the nightmare I had last night. Only...I'm still wearing the same gross clothes from last night, so I guess it must be the same dream. Well, whatever. I revise the baby-talk a little.

  
"Who's an adorable little abomination, huh? Who's a cute little monster?"

  
A third head untucks itself from underneath its fellows, and proceeds to chew on the ear of the head next to it sleepily, before locking eyes on me and joining in the happy chorus.

  
Right. Three-headed puppy. Best dream ever. It waddles up to me, and I pat my lap to let it nuzzle closer. Two of the heads are instantly engaged in licking my face, while I rub the third head's ears.

  
"Oh, hey, boy--s, you've got a collar, huh? Lessee, what's your name? Russell?  
And the one in the middle is Bear? How about you, huh? Who are you? C.C.? Aww. Cuties. C.C., Bear, Russell... wait a minute." I hold the dog at arm's length for a second, frowning at it.

  
"...Cerberus? Is that it?" The dog howls its agreement and scrambles toward me again. I hug it close by its fuzzy butt.

  
"I'll be your new mommy. Yes~ Yes I will, yes I will! Mommy's home!" Shame I can't take it with me when I wake up.

  
"I love you so much! You're a good dog! You're the best dog! Yes!"

 

The three heads pant and nuzzle at me, and for a blissful moment, I forget all about the murderwarehouse, invested solely in petting the best puppy ever.

  
And then a dry voice speaks from out of the darkness, and ruins everything.

 

"Really? A fat corgi? Can you even do your job like this? Some guard dog you turned out to be. Sorry, he's usually a lot more intimidating--and well-behaved...but I guess he sensed you were back and he wanted to sleep at the foot of your bed like old times, the sneaky little bugger."

  
I jerk my head up to look for the interloper, and Bear growls in the direction of the door. C.C. whines and licks my hand, and Russell huffs.

  
"And you are...?"

  
A man floats into the room--yes, I said floats, because he's kind of translucent, and yep, that's as disturbing as it sounds.

  
He raises an eyebrow at me and folds his arms, regarding me with a condescending smirk.

 

"Morpheus? I live here? Your servant? Ring any bells?"

  
"Servant? Not with that attitude, you aren't."

  
"Have you seen you lately? Dirty? Covered in dog spit? Mortal? Not your greatest look, sweetie. If you looked more like a queen, maybe..."

  
Man, even my subconscious is snarking at me. This can't be good.

  
"And you're ignoring me. Wow. Rude. Boy, is it a good thing I'm here, because you need my help, yesterday." He drifts closer to me and sniffs the air delicately. "Oh, ew. You reek. And those clothes are disgusting. Nope, not bringing you to him looking like this. It's bath time. C'mon, you can take the pooch."

  
As rude as he is, I'm not arguing, because I do reek, and I do want a bath.

  
"Let's go, boy!" I scoop the dog into my arms and follow.

  
"Okay. Given that this is a dream, I probably shouldn't care, because I can just wait to wake up, but I'm curious anyway, so indulge me. You said you were my servant 'before'. Before what? Just...who do you think I am?" I cross my arms over my chest, displeased that my own brain has come up with something so horrific and bizarre.

  
"Ooh, no, not my place to say. You can ask my Lord later."

  
"Lord with a capital "L"?"

  
"Yuuuup." He pops the 'p' sound at the end of the word.

  
"Does he have a name?"

  
"He--" Morpheus sighs, as though pained at what he is about to say. "He is known in this time as the Lord of Rot and Ruin."

  
"Yeugh. He isn't the one who built the murderbasement, is he?"

  
"Not touching that one, either. In fact, not talking to you again until you're less gross. So shoo. Bath's through there."

  
"If I really was your boss, you would be so fired," I mutter under my breath, but into the bathroom we go.

 

It is some time before I manage to feel clean again, despite my vigorous scrubbing until my skin is red and raw. The bath is set at floor level in a corner of the room, and there is a constant stream of water flowing from a spout at the ceiling down into it, so I can wash my hair. The water has turned gray and cloudy when I'm finally finished, and when I step out, I grab a nearby bucket of cold water, probably meant for hand-washing, and dump it over myself for good measure.

Cerberus has been watching me with one eye open as I bathe, presumably to make sure I don't drown myself in the bath.

"It's ok, buddy. Look, I'm all clean now. See?" I do a little twirl for him, and he 'whuffs' agreeably.

There's a dress provided in one corner of the room--Morpheus, probably, and I"d admire his taste if it weren't for the lack of underwear.

But I'm not putting my other clothes back on, and it is a lovely thing, cream, light and airy, sleeveless, falling in soft folds to the floor, with a gold cord wrapped around the waist. So I slip it on over my head and, whistling to my canine companion, I exit the bath, fully prepared for more ghost snark.

He isn't there.

 

But there is a man slumped forward in a chair at the side of the bed, head resting on the sheets, face-down. That can't be comfortable. I don't recognize him.  
The guy in the chair isn't wearing the armor of whoever attacked me outside the murderbasement, so I guess he's probably safe enough.

  
Oh, god, though, what if he's dead? I didn't see any men in there with us last night, but maybe they all died before I woke up? Should I poke him to see if he's breathing?

  
After a moment's pause, I shuffle toward him, one hand reaching toward him with some trepidation.

  
Maybe I should check for a pulse. Let's see, it's two fingers against the side of the neck near the...jugular?

  
Oh, please don't let me be touching a corpse. It's dark in here, wherever here is, and I can't get a good look at him, so I hope I don't end up poking him in the ear instead.

  
The moment my fingertips brush against his skin, barely even a touch, his head jerks up, his eyes snap open, and gloved fingers catch my wrist in a vise-grip. I wince, trying to pull my hand back, and realization washes over his face. He lets go immediately, just staring at me like I'm an alien.

  
"Sorry," I yelp, and then again, softer, "sorry. I just wanted to know if-- I was worried you were dead."

  
His eyes widen at this.

  
"Not trying to get up in your personal space, but...you're not hurt, are you? I didn't see you in the...um...uh...last night," I finish lamely, not quite willing to say it. "But maybe there was a separate room for guys?" I sigh. "Never mind, not important." He's still watching me watch him, drinking me in like he doesn't quite believe I'm real. I know the feeling.

 

Incredibly slowly, telegraphing my movements this time, I move my hand toward his clothed shoulder, going for a comforting sort of pat. He looks at me with wide, terrified eyes.

  
I squeeze his shoulder, trying to be braver than I feel.

  
"It's okay. You made it. You're not alone now." I'm just telling him what I, myself, want to hear, but it brings a glittering wet sheen to his eyes, and he hangs his head forward like a puppet with its strings cut. I slide my hand to the back of his neck, somewhat worried he's going to pass out, and he flinches again, but I don't move away, just holding my hand there, fingers against his warm skin, and he shudders and starts to shake.

  
Oh my god. Is he crying? Shit, I can't blame him, I feel like crying, too, after all this.

  
"Oh, man. Yeah, I could use a hug, too. Here." And I wrap my arms around him, fingers pushing up into his thick soft hair, holding him and stroking his head. For a long moment he just sits there, silently weeping, but then he slowly brings his hands up to hold me back. He makes a soft, annoyed, growling noise in his throat, and I pull back, confused.

  
He rips off his gloves like they personally offended his mother, before cupping my face with both bare hands, and pressing his forehead to mine. And, yeah, that's a little weird and normally I'd be freaking about personal space and boundaries, dude, but it's pretty obvious he just...needs this...and the feeling of another human being, warm and solid against me, is comforting to me, too, so I cover his hands with mine. We sit there, foreheads pressed together, just breathing, and even though he isn't talking, and I think he might still be crying, I kind of get what he's trying to say, trying to confirm.

  
You're here.

  
"Yeah. I am. We're fine. We're gonna get out of here." I hear my own words, whispered to my mute companion, and pull away from him, even though he seems reluctant to let me go. "Shit. We have to get out of here! Who knows when the killer might come back. For that matter, who knows when that asshole ghost might come back! We should go---crap, where'd my tibia go?" I glance around, not spotting my makeshift weapon near me.

  
The guy stands, holding a finger to his lips, and offers me the world's rustiest smile, like he barely remembers how the muscles are supposed to work. It's kind of spooky, to be honest, but I take it as intended. He indicates with his other hand that I should stay where I am. He mimes scouting ahead, and I nod, hoping the coast is clear as he disappears from view.

 

I wait for a good thirty seconds before deciding to go after him.


End file.
